


Right

by bearonthecouch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 22:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10229279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearonthecouch/pseuds/bearonthecouch
Summary: One moment of beauty in the wasteland of the Blight, when Alistair and Rhyanon Amell slip irrevocably from being uncertain friends to something much more.





	

Rhyanon does a good job of hiding her fear, and thank the Maker for that, because Alistair is acutely aware of all the ways that he doesn't know what he's doing. One of them has to be strong enough to do what needs to be done, and save Ferelden from the Blight. There is no one else. He glances sideways, toward the tent she's disappeared into, which stands completely silent except for the huffing wheezes of the mabari hound. Alistair sits by the campfire, idly itches his palm, wonders if he should go after her. It's been a hard day, and the weight of it is crushing even for him. Around them, crickets chirp so loudly that it may as well be called screaming. Across the small forested clearing, Morrigan putters around her own campsite. Leliana sits conversing with Zevran just outside the elven assassin's tent. Alistair swears he can feel the bard's eyes tracking his every movement with unsettling ease.

  
And then Wynne lopes up to the campfire with a knowing smile. She puts a teapot over the crackling flames, and sits down across from Alistair.

  
“ _What_?” he asks, somehow turning the question into a snarl. But Wynne doesn't seem to be too bothered by his hostility. She simply raises an eyebrow and leans back, an unspoken invitation for him to speak. Alistair stays stubbornly silent.

  
Wynne sighs. “Go to her, Alistair. After today, she will need a... friend.”

  
Another longing glance toward Rhyanon's tent. Alistair runs his thumb over the smooth petals of the rose he's kept hidden in his pocket for weeks and weeks. Waiting for the right time. He turns back toward Wynne, uncertain. The older mage nods and gives him a soft smile of encouragement. Right then. Alistair collects his courage enough to at least get to his feet, and he begins to cross the little bit of distance between the central campfire and Rhyanon's tent.

  
There's no door, nothing to knock on and no simple way to announce his presence beyond simply blurting it out, which leaves him standing there shuffling his feet awkwardly. “Erm... hullo?” he calls tentatively, and the soft pitch of his voice is almost certainly drowned out by the dog's barking.

  
“Shut up!” Rhyanon's voice snaps, and it takes a moment for Alistair to realize that she's addressing the hound rather than him. The barking ceases. “What do you want?” Rhyanon calls. This time, she is addressing him.

  
“I just wanted to... see if you're alright.”

  
“I'm fine, Alistair.”

  
“Can I come in?”

  
There is a long moment of silence, while he stands there holding his breath, and then a hand reaches out and pulls the tent flap open. Alistair scrambles inside before he can change his mind.  
Rhyanon's tent is larger than his, but not by much. There is very little inside but the bedroll taking up most of the space. The dog is curled up just past that, regarding him warily. A dim blue glow permeates the canvas-enclosed room, created by the magical wisps of light dancing lazily above his head. He looks toward Rhyanon, who sits curled up against the heavy fabric wall. She watches him almost as guardedly as the hound.

  
Alistair sits down on the floor beside her. This shouldn't be so difficult. His throat is dry. He swallows and licks his lips and tries to create some moisture where there isn't any.

  
“I already told you,” Rhyanon says softly. “I'm fine.”

  
But Alistair shakes his head. “I don't think you are.” How could she be? He isn't.

  
The broken Circle Tower had been a nightmare, devastating at the level of the soul. And he hadn't grown up there.

  
Rhyanon looks up at him, and there is a darkness in her eyes that he swears he's never seen before. “There were times,” she admits, “When I wanted the place to be destroyed.”

  
Alistair nods. He understands that better than he wants to admit. He'd screamed himself hoarse in the silence of the Chantry, begging to be heard. “But not like that,” he says softly.

  
“No,” Rhyanon agrees. “Not like that.”

  
She is afraid, deeply haunted, no matter how desperately she wishes she could hide it, from Alistair and from herself. The demons that burst to life in the wreckage of the closest thing to a home she'd ever had cut right to the heart of the deepest fears lurking in her heart. She's a mage, she's grown up hearing about the dangers of abominations. But coming face to face with those threats made real is something different.

  
And the magic inside her feels tainted now, no matter how much time and distance they put between themselves and Kinloch Hold. Are the wisps she's created darker, or is that just her imagination?

  
“Alistair,” she whispers.

  
“Yes?”

  
“How am I supposed to know if we... if _I_... am doing the right thing?”

  
“You're just supposed to know, aren't you?”

  
“Maybe that's what scares me.”

  
Alistair frowns. He reaches out to take Rhyanon's hand in his own. He runs his thumb over her knuckles, and he looks into her eyes. “What do you mean?” he asks, and he works hard to keep his voice steady. He doesn't want to let on just how worried he is. If they lose Rhyanon, if their leader suddenly falters in a crisis of confidence, the whole of Ferelden could be doomed. They need her.

  
Rhyanon shrugs, pulling away from Alistair's piercing gaze. “I just mean... I don't _ever_ think I'm doing the right thing. I don't think I can tell the difference between the right thing and... not.”  
“I don't believe that,” Alistair insists. “Not even for a moment.”

  
It's true. He's been watching her from the start. Rhyanon cares about people, even when nothing says she has to. She helps them, even when it makes things inconvenient for her. She isn't practical, not when it comes to questions of need. She gives everything she has and figures it out later.

  
“Rhyanon,” Alistair breathes, as he pulls her closer to him, and wraps her up in a hug. “You know how to do the right thing. You just have to trust me on this.” She still looks uncertain, but she finally nods. “Good.”

  
He is acutely aware of the insignificant weight of the rose inside his pocket as he traces his hand down Rhyanon's jawline. Her feather-soft hair brushes over his fingers. And he kisses her, before he can lose his nerve. They've done this countless times by now, but it still sends a jolt of something like electricity through him, taking his breath away. It's like he's hungrier for it now, or she is, or they both are. Her lips are slightly chapped and taste salty as well as sweet. She moans a little as she pulls away just enough to breathe, and then suddenly he's looking into her deep blue eyes, and the furrowed brow between them, confused and yearning.

  
Sudden panic overtakes him, and he can't overcome the instinct to turn and run out of the tent. Rhyanon's hand, still entangled with his, feels fire hot. He looks down, half expecting to see magic at play, but there are no sparks or smoke. He takes a deep breath, aware that Rhyanon is leaning in to kiss him again, but he ducks his head. He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out the rose, thrusts it into her hands before he can second-guess himself.

  
“What is this?” Rhyanon asks.

  
“It's for you,” Alistair says. He can feel his cheeks flushing. Maker help him. “I found it, outside Lothering, and I just thought... it was this one beautiful thing, surrounded by all that devastation and destruction. So I kept it.” There are other things that he could say. That he'd been searching for the right moment to give it to her, that he'd somehow known it was for her without being able to pinpoint when or how he'd known it.

  
Rhyanon stares at him for a long moment. “Lothering,” she repeats softly. “You've had it all this time?”

  
Alistair nods. “It's stupid, I know.”

  
“It isn't stupid. I love it. I love you.”

  
The realization of what she's just said seems to fill the silence, making it deafeningly loud. Alistair almost wants to make her repeat it, so he can be sure he wasn't hearing things wrong. Instead,  
he takes her hand, and holds it tightly in his own, as he pulls her into his arms. “I love you too,” he murmurs. “I've always loved you.”

  
Since Lothering, at least, probably since before that. He's been drawn to her since the first moment that he saw her.

  
In the beginning, she had hated him.

  
He's not quite sure when she'd softened, or why. He's not quite sure when the woman in his arms stopped being a mage, or The New Warden, or the uncertain but determined and charismatic leader of their group and became _Rhyanon_. All of those things, and yet none of them matter to him. All he sees now is her, his one thing of beauty in the wasteland.

  
She hasn't protested or pulled away from his admission, so Alistair leans into it. He guides her gently to the bedroll laid out on the floor of the tent. She still doesn't protest. “Rhyanon,” he says, and he surprises himself with how calm he sounds.

  
She hums a little note that somehow manages to encompass both question and agreement. She pulls him down a little bit, so that he is nearly laying on top of her, except for the awkward way he holds his weight on one arm. Rhyanon's hand is suddenly on his body, first his other arm, then his chest. Alistair swallows hard, afraid to admit that he has no idea what he's doing when it comes to this. Is he supposed to take off his clothes? Is she? He's embarrassed to ask.

  
And yet she's looking up at him expectantly, clearly waiting for him to do something. He clears his throat, and it sounds unbelievably loud in the quiet of the tent. “Rhyanon,” he murmurs softly, afraid to break the spell. “Is it okay if I...?”

  
She nods yes, biting her lip, and rolling her eyes in clear exasperation. Does her skin feel warmer, now, or is that just his imagination? “Okay,” Alistair says aloud, one last reassurance before he plunges ahead. He can feel the blush reddening his cheeks, but Rhyanon doesn't seem to care. As he sits there, helplessly watching, she pulls her shirt up and over her head. Her rounded breasts peek out from the top of her breast band, and Alistair's heart starts beating faster.

  
“Your turn,” Rhyanon murmurs.

  
Alistair frowns. “My? Oh!” He keeps his eyes on hers as he follows her command, pulling his shirt off and grinning, as though he's followed through on a dare. But this is so much better.

  
He reaches out and runs his fingers over Rhyanon's curving breasts. She holds up a hand to stop him, but only for a moment, as she reaches behind her to undo whatever clasp holds the breast band in place. It falls to the floor of the tent, and Alistair's eyes widen. Rhyanon smiles at him, and the next thing he knows, he has cupped her breast in his hand, and leaned in to kiss her. It's easier this time, he isn't so scared, and as his lips press against hers, he becomes aware of Rhyanon's fingers pulling at the waistband of his trousers. He wriggles a little, making it easier for her to work the pants down, letting them slip into a puddle of fabric at his feet. And then he's standing there stark naked, feeling like an absolute idiot.

  
And then – and _then_ – Rhyanon has his member in her hand, running her fingers over the sensitive flesh until he's practically crying with need and want and desperation. Her thumb slowly trails down his length, which seems to grow even harder in response to her touch. “Maker,” he pleads, and Rhyanon just grins wickedly. How in the name of the Void does she know how to do this? He never thought it was possible to feel so good.

  
He closes his eyes and hums a little as Rhyanon's skilled hands bring him to release. And then she's kissing him again, breathing a little more heavily than she was before. Or maybe that's just him.  
And then it's a little while later, seconds or minutes, he isn't sure, but they're both lying there on her bedroll, staring up at the roof of the tent. Somewhere along the way, Rhyanon has lost her clothes too, so that she is just as naked as he is, and they're pressed together, skin to skin. Alistair wraps his arm around her, listening to the rhythmic sound of her breathing. And then she's asking if he wants, and he's nodding yes – _Maker_ , yes.

  
And then he slides himself inside her, too slowly, cautious and hesitant, but she keeps encouraging him and then finally he's _there_ , and there's no going backwards now, and she's grinding her hips and coaxing him forward in a kind of desperate rhythm that somehow makes perfect sense. He moves faster now, and with more certainty. He isn't afraid anymore, or else if he is then it's the kind of fear that doesn't matter. His body is soaked with sweat and so is Rhyanon's, and her hair dances with static. Eventually, there's an explosion, a release of energy that leaves them both gasping. Alistair rolls onto his back, sneaking a glance at Rhyanon from the corner of his eye. She's propped herself onto her side, so that she is looking down at him. He feels himself blushing. “Was that... did I do it right?” he wonders.

  
In response, Rhyanon leans in close, to brush her lips across his.

  
“I guess I did it right.”

  
“Thank you, Alistair,” she murmurs.

  
He nods, and lets his eyes drift closed.


End file.
